Armchair Seasonings
by Rosa Cotton
Summary: One dweller observes a year in the life of Neverland and how a beloved’s absence and presence make such a difference. Bookverse.


Disclaimer: _Peter Pan_, all characters, places, and related terms belong to J.M. Barrie.

Author's Note: I'm back with yet another different, unique one-shot. Enjoy!.

* * *

Armchair Seasonings

It is summer – hot, sticky, and strange. The Neverland is quiet…almost lazy. The pirates are gone; the Indians keep to their tents; the house under the ground is nearly empty. It is just Peter and Tink and me now that the others are gone.

During the day I'm lonely and forgotten in my corner. While I wait for my captain's return, I have only my memories of the laughter and song that used to fill this place. And I wonder when I will be sat in again, caressed with small, gentle, familiar hands.

Every evening he takes his medicine. "She would be pleased to know I still take it," he whispers to his fairy. Tink calls him a silly boy.

More than once he returns with his hands overflowing with strawberries. They sit untouched on the tall – and ever-growing – stump, and go bad. Peter does not like them, and Wendy, who loves them so, is no longer here.

When the calm and peacefulness is interrupted by a raging thunderstorm in the middle of the night, the boy always wakes. Still half-asleep, he moves towards the dying fire and then stops, confused to discover her not there and no longer in need of comfort. He'll sit beside me then, chin resting on his knees, arms wrapped around his legs. In silence we think of the girl whose absence the whole island feels.

* * *

Autumn comes. The air turns cool, and leaves happily break free from the trees. And with the cooler weather comes new faces.

Peter has been gone, often traveling beyond the Neverland. His new band numbers six. He has not taken the time to name them; instead he calls each one a variety of names: Short, Curly, Plumb, Nibs. Poor things, they're no longer sure who they are.

There are new foes to fight with as well. A wayward bunch of evil fighters stumbled on the island from the eastern part of the sea. They are almost like giants, with long, wild, dark hair and beards. There have already been three meetings – with drawn weapons – between them and the boys.

All this change has settled Neverland back into its old ways. Peter no longer believes he is in need of medicine and brings back to the house only blueberries, his and the boys' favorite. Storms no longer disturb his slumbering. His crow is heard throughout the jungle. And he freely brags, "Oh, the cleverness of me!"

One night the boys play particularly rough, and during their game of tag I'm knocked over, and one of my arms break off with a loud crack. The cheerful mood rapidly vanishes as Peter lashes out at the boy responsible for my injury. Cowering, no one dares protest when he orders them to bed.

But he stays up nearly all night, working on carving a new arm for me. With his lips pursed into a determined line, his narrowed eyes sparkle like stars as he works. Yet maybe it is just the light that makes them shine so.

* * *

Winter is long and cold. Peter and the boys stay in the house more, shivering, wrapped in their blankets not thick enough to warm them thoroughly. Happily they reenact the snowball fight or building of snowmen that happened earlier that day. Peter wordlessly gazes into the distance. While he's taken part in the boys' games, his mind is far away.

One day not everyone troops above ground to play. The boys have no warm coats to protect them against the cold and as an effect have caught a good number of colds this winter. This time the littlest red-haired chap is ill, and Tiger Lily comes to give him some medicine. Soon he is more comfortable and willingly goes to sleep.

"Poor lads!" the princess sighs quietly. "Perhaps they should have a mother's loving care. They might not grow sick as often."

Peter stares down on the sleeping boy for a long moment. "Yes," he speaks the single word almost silently.

Slowly Tiger Lily walks around the home, eyes studious, curious, wishful. The place could use a good sweeping, dishes need to be cleaned, and pants are in want of mending and washing. She comes to me last, her fingers dancing over my back and arms. She seats herself in me, rocking back and forth. She does it too hard and too quickly; she feels so unfamiliar, so wrong in me. And I want her to stop and leave me be.

Perhaps Peter hears me. Watching us, something strange flickers in his face before his expression becomes blank, as it has been for many weeks. He comes over to her and carefully pulls her up to her feet. Wordlessly he leads her to one of the trees.

"If I can help…if you need anything, or the boys, let me know, Peter," Tiger Lily says. She then looks at him in that way that makes my color seem brighter; and if I could, I would give her a good whack with my arm.

He nods. "Thank you," he whispers. His eyes look over her shoulder to me.

Then, unexpectedly, she rises up onto her toes, her hand settles on his cheek, and she presses her lips against his.

My yell goes unheard. All my wishing does me no good. I am unable to fly at the Indian brat, to stop her. Tell her she has no right… But perhaps I am in the wrong. Perhaps she will make the snow melt, the clouds disappear, the cold sweep away. Perhaps she will make it spring. Helpless, I can only watch.

It lasts only a short moment more before Tiger Lily pulls away. Peter remains motionless like stone. He opens his eyes, oh, so slowly. His skin seems to turn pale ever so slightly. And his eyes…they turn black, hard like stone. He steps back a little as he stares at her. She watches his every move, eyes still full of hope. At the same time we notice his right hand in his pocket, no doubt a tiny object clutched in his protective fist. Her shoulders sag with defeat. My anxiousness turns to overwhelming relief.

"I'm sorry." There is nothing else to be said, and in a moment she disappears up the tree.

Peter walks back to me, gently traces my arm as though to comfort me or be comforted, and opens his right fist. The thimble stands strong and true.

* * *

The gentle, rhythmic sound of me rocking back and forth tries to lull me to sleep. I cannot stop smiling with happiness. I've wanted to feel this for a long time. I missed it dearly. My motion halts, and I pay more attention to what's going on.

A tiny knot is tied and the thread is broken. Needles and thread are returned to their proper place in the basket. The pair of newly mended pants is folded neatly. Both basket and pants are lifted up.

"Peter!" A quiet laugh. "I thought you were asleep…"

A boyish laugh is the only answer. When was the last time he laughed like that?

"You should be!" she adds.

Swiftly he is back, a white lily in his hand. "I'm not tired. Besides," his pink cheeks grow rosier for a moment as he toys with the flower before meeting her gaze again, "I wanted to give you this."

Her expression turns part curious, part puzzled. She reaches out and tenderly traces the white petals. "It is lovely."

"It is the first flower of spring. It opened the day you came," his voice is soft and his eyes clear and deep…

Gently he places the blossom behind her ear and he grins, pleased, as she blushes prettily. She gazes shyly up at him in thanks. He settles himself at her feet and places his head in her lap. Slowly her fingers dance through his curls, again and again. A sigh of contentment escapes him, and I sigh with him.

"Tell me a story, Wendy," he whispers.

Her fingers never stopping their dance, she begins, "Once upon a time there was a boy…named Peter Pan."

"Was he alone?"

"Yes. But then one day he found a Wendy, to be his mother, do his spring cleaning."

"And did she ever…leave him?" There is a trace of fear in his voice as he stares into the leaping flames.

The crackling fire fills the long silence.

"When summer came and he did not ask her to stay."

His hand reaches up towards her free one, and their fingers lace together.

I close my eyes to this colorful picture. And I hope spring will never end.

THE END


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